


We Lay Our Scene

by fckyeahgallavich



Series: Canon fill-in [4]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Gallavich, M/M, Masturbation, POV Mickey, POV Mickey Milkovich, Swearing, Ukrainian mob, don't know shit about the mob, just making it up with what I consider logical, up to a point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 07:43:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13542843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fckyeahgallavich/pseuds/fckyeahgallavich
Summary: This is Mickey's side of the Gallavich story. Why was he always covered in bruises and dirt? Why is he so emotionally distant? Why is he angry so much? Where did his heart of gold come from? When exactly did he realize he loved Ian Gallagher? How did Ian Gallagher change him? What all was on Mickey's plate behind the scenes?





	We Lay Our Scene

There were times (but they were few!) when Mickey was so fucking tired of this shit. And even from prison, his dad was a demanding sonofabitch. Mandy got to rest easy with Terry gone. Not Mickey. In some ways, Mickey had to be more on guard because when Terry wasn't around, he was in charge of the family business--and if Mickey royally fucked up before Terry got back...? Mickey'd be a dead man. Or at least a blue and black one.

 

The fuck does a 16 year old know about running a fucking crime family, anyway?

 

Terry had called last night to tell him to be at the warehouse just outside of the city. Mickey knew it well and yet the building never got easier to approach. Mickey had initially wanted to argue that he had a test he had actually studied for and he wanted to take it just to see if he could pass on his own merit... But he remembered himself just as he opened his mouth and he heard himself say "I'll be there" instead. It was no wonder he had a 1.6 GPA. Not that anyone knew his GPA, cared, or knew that he cared. As far as Dad was concerned, school was for rich yuppies who had never actually worked a day in their goddamned lives. McDonald's workers? They didn't know shit as far as Terry Milkovich was concerned. The only people who really know how to work are the hustlers, the people who live on the edge of morality because they have all to gain and even with nothing, still had everything to lose. School was for the weak--people who couldn't take the world for themselves, didn't have the goods to face the world on their own and so need some fancy parchment paper in a big frame to do the talking for them. Though Mickey outwardly gave up on school a long time ago, he still did homework assignments where he could... Can never hurt to have an intellectual advantage on the brawn, right? Cuz Mickey was admittedly a little short for this shit... He'd stopped growing last year, but was still hoping to sprout those extra four or five inches so he wouldn't have to worry about relying on his older brothers for the rest of his life. Not that he needed them frequently. Don't let his size fool you, Mickey fuckin' Milkovich could handle his own in any fight. His brothers were usually there just to be on the safe side. Regardless, he figured, whether he shot up those final few inches or not, having some smarts on top of street smarts wouldn't be so bad...

 

In a situation like this, for example... There had to be a smarter way to set up a deal. Here they were in an abandoned warehouse, easily recognized for what it is--a drug house--so if the cops ever wizened up a smidge and noticed more than two people usually hanging out around here with absolutely no legal business on the city's record... They'd all be going to prison. But for the past four years this has been their usual pick up with the mob. Mickey only started getting a front row seat last year when Iggy went in again. So far, Dad was thrilled (well, as close to thrilled as you get with Terry Milkovich) with Mickey because Iggy was always gettin' caught and Mickey is always able to get away. And then his dad went down for... get this... hiring a hooker.

 

The crime boss Terry Milkovich, down for solicitation of prostitution... The only reason he's been in this long is because he has a rap sheet as long as Mickey's arm.

 

Mickey dreamed of the day that he could look his dad straight in the fuckin' eye and tell him to go to Hell the next time he asked (told) him to go (they were going) on a run. But he would never get the 'nads. So every time Dad “asked' him to come along, he went, dutiful son that he was, and stayed back, and kept his mouth shut, let dad do all of the talking. This time, there was no dad. There was no Uncle. No cousin. Mickey had to do the talking because just about every Milkovich over the age of 21 was in prison. One day the pigs would just round up all the Milkoviches on principle.

 

They were getting a case of coke. The Milkoviches only operated on a case at a time because it was safer that way, easier to store and easier to transport. It's not like they had a car or anything like the yuppies who store their “dangerous” joints in the glove box, the joints that made them look in their rearview with panic every time they saw a cop car... As though the cop would be able to smell the bud unlit between two sheets of metal. Mickey wished sometimes that that was all he had to worry about...

 

Exchange of money... Grab the case... Each side making sure everything is present... Nodding to each other that everything is good.

 

“CHICAGO PD! NOBODY MOVE!” Someone on the other side shouted. That meant one thing—a rat. In the mob. Dad would have a field day with this when he got out. For the time being, Mickey had to protect their investment before it got collected by the bomb squad. Mickey threw his brothers two bags of coke, grabbed two for himself, and ran. He couldn't grab all of them but he didn't want to waste any more time than necessary grabbing more so they just lost a good bit of money. But at least they got something. The cops were more worried about the mob than they were the small family-operated unit. They thought that they would catch them real soon if not right away which is why the Milkoviches are so notorious for getting away with shit.

 

Well... They usually are. The family has been in a bit of a losing streak for the past year. But Mickey couldn't think of that now. He had to get this coke home so they could store it.

 

They ran and ran until they were back in the thick of the city, darting in and out of connecting alleyways, networks that all Milkoviches needed to know before ever going out on a run.

 

Finally, Mickey stopped letting the fat fuckers behind him to catch up and catch their breath.

 

"Jesus Christ, Mickey! You tryna ditch us?" Tony complained.

 

"Jesus Christ learn to put down the fuckin' fork and maybe you'd keep up!" Mickey shot back. Tony looked unamused at the quip but didn't pursue the matter, deciding to focus on his breath instead. "Got one more stop after this then we go home and sort all this." Tony, Jaime, and Colin nodded. They kept an ear out for running footsteps or sirens but the alley remained blissfully silent aside from their panting. Beside the back door of whatever business they stopped beside, Mickey spotted a crowbar. He shrugged and picked it up, twirling it around his palm like those stupid flag twirlers did with batons.

 

"Good?" Mickey demanded. His brothers nodded and they took off at a much easier pace--more like a brisk shuffle than a run.

 

It wasn't a long walk to the restaurant from where they were. Martinez ran a little Mexican restaurant and bar and even though it was pretty busy, the guy got a little greedy... Started dealing on the down low at the bar. Well, he went to the Milkoviches thinking they would be nicer than the actual mob... And to a certain extent, they were nicer. Mickey didn't have a gun with him to collect so he guessed that could be considered “nicer.”

 

He kicked in the door for dramatic effect--because it was always fun to see people piss their pants when they realized trouble was catching up with them.

 

Martinez was, in fact, behind the bar on his left cowering in fear behind the register, cursing in spanish.

 

"Hey! Martinez!" Mickey beat the curved end of the crowbar against the palm of his hand threateningly. "You uh- forget something last month?"

 

"I just... Terry is in... In jail so I thought--"

 

"Fuck off with that, Martinez. He's been in jail for six months already and you haven't missed a payment... So far." Martinez cringed, looking like he was about to shit himself. The power Mickey had over him gave him a bit of a buzz. He smirked. "I'mma give you to the count of five to fork over the cash and the interest. Chip in a bottle of your finest tequila and we'll leave that pretty face alone." Martinez turned the key in that register so quick he damn near broke the thing off. Mickey had to admit, he was a little disappointed. He kinda wanted to work out his aggression with a difficult client, but it looked like Martinez was a mouse and wasn't going to put up any fight.

 

The guy yanked out all of the twenties and tens in the drawer, and was about to close it when Mickey reached over the counter to pull the drawer back out with the claw side of the crowbar. Martinez flashed his attention to Mickey, who raised his eyebrows menacingly.

 

"Lift the drawer." He said slowly, easily. Martinez did so and lo and behold, two hundos. Mickey smiled threateningly and with much satisfaction as Martinez added the two bills to the pile in his fist. Mickey allowed him to shut the drawer and reached his hand out for the cash. He hadn't counted as the guy pulled the bills out but Mickey was certain that with the $200, whatever the twenties and tens amounted to would be fine.

 

"That should--should do it..." The wuss stuttered.

 

"Don't tell me you already forgot..." Mickey rolled his eyes and slammed the end of the crowbar on the countertop, punching a decent dent in the wood. Martinez shrieked and fetched a fresh bottle of tequila. Even put it in a paper take out bag.

 

"Thank you!" Mickey grinned sarcastically accepting the bag. "So. We're square now, but this better not happen again. Or no tequila is going to save your fuckin' nose, you hear me?" Martinez nodded rapidly. "Aight. We'll drop your next shipment next week when you better have the money for the month." Mickey rest the crowbar over his shoulder, like a baseball player rests his baseball bat when he's walking to home plate, turned and walked out of the restaurant.

 

"Fuck, Mickey! Didn't even need to bust a kneecap!" Colin laughed, grabbing the tequila and taking off for home. Despite how much the guys had previously whined about running, they sure put in some hustle to get home for that tequila. Mickey rolled his eyes and maintained his pace, not at all concerned about being picked up by the police or anything. He couldn't exactly explain his calm. He just had a feeling that everything was fine.

 

Alone with his thoughts, Mickey allowed them to drift through many subjects but somehow they landed on noticing some full asses walking in front of him. But it only took three seconds before he recognized them as male and he redirected his attention somewhere else.

 

This had been going on for some time and each time it happened, Mickey got more and more disgusted with himself. Dudes don't fuck dudes. Dudes don't get turned on by dudes. Dudes don't stare at another dude's ass and rate it on a scale of 1-10 like their brothers do with a chick's rack. Speaking of, dudes rate chick's racks because boobs give dudes boners...

 

Mickey has never popped up like that for any girl. Ever. It's always taken a lot of effort and usually the end result was disappointing for both parties--though Angie Zago didn't really mind either way so she was his usual go-to girl for that reason alone.

 

He told himself that he was too busy with all of the bullshit his dad told him to do and was too busy trying to learn the family business without getting shot by another family or arrested at a bust to notice girls.

 

But subconsciously, Mickey knew that was only an excuse since he seemed to have enough time to spring up for certain guys if they were wearing the right thing or in the right situation...

 

Mickey shook his head angrily and added more swagger in his stride. He was man. All man. And no man would stare at another man's ass like a fuckin' faggot.

/////

He and his mom worked in silence cutting and packing the coke. She had been trying too hard to get on his good side lately and it was pissing him off. 

 

His mom meant well... But it was like every time Terry went away, the house was full of love and fun--pancakes and humming, no yelling, no loaded guns in the house, hugs if you want them... that mushy-gushy "family" bullshit. But Mickey stopped falling for that shit when he was around nine, actively called her on it when he was 13. And every time Terry went to jail for a while, and she'd loosen up, Mickey had to work hard to keep her at arm's length. She cleared the table of the product, storing it in their usual box and placing it on the top shelf inside one of the gun cabinets. She locked the gun cabinet as though there were any babies around who might stumble in there. Mickey restrained an eye roll because even though he'd turned cold toward his mother didn't mean everyone had. 

 

She sat down shyly across from him.  _Oh Jesus, fuck._

 

"Mikhailo..." He faced her irritably. She knew he preferred the nickname. Mikhailo was so... uptight. Same as Michael. Parents are only supposed to call you by your full name if you're in trouble. But she always loved using his Ukrainian namesake. "Mickey..." She breathed, correcting herself at his irritation. "Are you going with me to pick up Ihor at the end of the week?" Mickey shrugged.  


"Do you  _need_ me to?" She shrugged her shoulders back.

 

"Could be nice." She said with a little more conviction than before.  Mickey averted his eyes, getting angry again. This time at himself. 

 

He can't even look his mother in the eye and she can't even talk to him. But he was just  _so_ _fucking_ _angry!_ How could he fix his relationship with his mother now when he'd spent the past three years telling her just short of 'fuck off'?

 

"I'll think about it." He murmured, getting up in a hurry before shit got sappy. He stalked to the fridge to grab a beer and with his first sip, the moron brigade came bustling into the living room, wrestling and laughing. 

 

Mickey was glad his older brothers felt free to roughhouse and have fun.. but did they have to be so goddamned  _loud_ about it?

 

"MICK! We've got that faggot Seagal movie for you!" 

 

"Fuck off, he ain't a fag!" Mickey snarked, plopping on the sofa beside his brothers who had already got the movie going. The morons talked during the whole thing so Mickey mostly just zoned out, watching the film mindlessly and tuning everything out. He was grateful when the movie was done so that he could go to his room and be alone for a little while--but only after he boxed his brother's ears for asking him stupid fuckin' questions about the movie they hadn't paid attention to.

 

"Well pay attention next time and shut your fuckin trap, Jesus!" Mickey slammed the door behind him, the cardboard "Stay the fuck out" sign tapping lightly from the force on the other side.

 

Finally alone, Mickey collapsed on his bed and sighed deeply, releasing a day's worth of tension into his pillow. No matter how hard and deep he breathed, though, his shoulders remained tensed. He flopped over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling where a couple of knives were imbedded deep. Really, he should pull those out, but they were so deep into the plaster that Mickey didn't feel like making the effort and was also slightly proud he drove them in so deep.

 

He stared absently at the knife handles and ceased to really think anything until some scenes from the movie came drifting into his brain... His whole body started to warm as the thoughts flowed behind his eyelids. Excessively oiled biceps and ripped abs... He bit his lip as he, for once, indulged the thoughts and allowed the warmth to swallow him. His heart rate sped as a little fantasy played out in his thoughts. It was innocent enough but still, he felt himself warming and stiffening.

 

He groaned to himself as he agonized over what he wanted to do. Knowing he shouldn't, but the tension between his legs being so great that he almost wanted to damn the consequences.  After a minute of internalized debating, he finally unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, unfolding the material away from his crotch and dipping his fingers below the waistband.

 

He was already mostly hard, but with a couple of pulls he felt himself firm and tighten under his hand. Closing his eyes, and sinking his head back against the pillow, Mickey allowed his thoughts to drift for the first time... ever.

 

As he stroked himself, experimenting with the tightness and rhythm of his hold, he allowed his mind to conjure the first image it could find... A head bobbing up and down on his erection, mouth teasingly tight and then loose, licking and kissing the skin on his shaft as the person worked. He refused to acknowledge it, but from the shortness of the hair and slight stubble around the lips wrapped around him, Mickey subconsciously knew he was fantasizing about some guy blowing him. But he refused to dwell on his, allowing himself just a few minutes of peace and enjoyment. 

 

His whole body flashed hot as he continued to work himself and he surrendered to the fantasy. While his dominant hand continued stroking in a teasing pattern, his other hand reached underneath, toying with his entrance. He'd never before allowed himself to try this, and he probably wouldn't let himself do too much at this point, either. But it would be a sample. 

 

Without really knowing what he was doing, he teased the hole with the pad of his finger, blood rushing to his erection and breath punching out in response. He allowed the tip of his finger to slowly press in, wriggling a little bit to experiment. He couldn't go far but the fantasy playing behind his closed eyes helped him along to make up for the space he could not fill. He bit his lip hard to avoid a breathy  _fuck..._ from escaping. The anonymous man pulled back off his cock, his motions stalled with the image, but his finger continued the pace. He could see the guy rolling a condom over his hard dick and as the man entered him, Mickey stretched his arm as low as it could go, allowing his finger to go even deeper.

 

"Fuck..." Mickey breathed, fully surrendered to the feel of his finger pressing so firmly inside of him. Once he reached as far as he could, he continued his rhythm on his dick, bucking his hips into his fist and against his finger. The sensation inside and the firm rhythm outside... Mickey was a goner.

 

It took a lot less time than he expected--though he hadn't exactly known  _what_ to expect. As he came, he had to turn his head all the way to the side to a painful angle and bite the pillow. 

 

It was by far the best orgasm he'd ever experienced. 

 

Withdrawing from himself, he did everything he could to avoid looking at his hands, choosing to stare at the ceiling for a while. He could no longer deny it... He liked the presence of something solid up his ass. He flinched at the thought, hating the truth of the revelation. Disgust flooded his stomach, heating his blood in a new way. He flipped out of his bed, marched to the joined bathroom and washed his hands, scrubbing away the memory of what he'd just done. Avoiding his reflection in the mirror, Mickey cleaned himself off, throwing on a new shirt and tucking a gun into the waistband of his jeans, dropping bullets into his pockets.

 

"Mikhailo! Mikhailo, where are you going?" His mom called from the kitchen. He wrinkled his face at her, indicating his confusion and mockery of her lame ass attempt at asserting any parental authority by asking his business.

 

"Out." He replied snarkily, his revulsion with himself rising to the surface. She was such an easy target. She was so desperate to please him and so eager to put her emotional security in him despite knowing how little he trusted her. It would be so easy to tear that bitch a new one, but she didn't deserve that. Before she could say anything else that would piss him off, Mickey slammed the door behind him and leapt down the steps, stalking onto the sidewalk. The anger pulsed through him and drove him down to his personal shooting range where he reminded himself of how  _men_ spend their time when not fucking girls.

Because guys. Fucked. Girls. They weren't the fucked.


End file.
